Carving
by RosemarieCraig
Summary: The Holmes father does something neither boy ever expected... And now, twenty years later, John is threatening to leave 221B forever unless Sherlock talks to a proffesional... that'll go well. The first chapter is not for people with sensitive stomachs, then it gets better then worse. Abuse warning.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and Mycroft stood outside their bedroom doors like soldiers, not looking at each other. They had been there for half an hour, and Sherlock was tapping his hands together, his mind moving at a hundred miles an hour. Finally, Their father stalked up the stairs. Mycroft flinched at the familiar sound.

"Boys. I've told you so many times to be careful in my house. You broke an antique vase. This is unacceptable"

"It wasn't an antique. You brought it from IKEA last month" Sherlock said, a look of abject confusion on his six year old face.

"You insolent little freak! If I say it was an antique, it was an antique! When are you going to learn that no one cares what you have to say? Now, Mycroft, come to Sherlock's bedroom. Both of you in, now!" he yelled. The boys obeyed instantaneously. Sherlock went to his bed, standing beside it in a well practiced movement. Mycroft didn't know where to stand. He'd never been in Sherlock's room for this.

"Father, do I-"

"Shut up Mycroft. Go stand by the book case" their father yelled. The boy obeyed immediately. "You disappoint me, Sherlock. I thought I could expect better of you. I was obviously wrong. Mycroft, it is you job to make sure this brat stays out of trouble. For now, this is revoked. You will not move from that spot unless I say tonight. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes father" Mycroft whispered, going pale. He knew what would happen if he disobeyed a direct order like that. He wouldn't sit or lie down for a week.

"Good" their father pulled a pocket knife from his pocket and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder. Mycroft's eyes widened, and Sherlock yelped with the force applied on his skin. The father ripped the shirt off the back of his youngest son and shoved him down on the bed.

"Father! What are you going to do?" Mycroft cried out, his face a mask of fear. His father pinned his brother face down on his bed and flicked the knife open, kneeling with one knee on Sherlock's lower back.

"Shut the hell up, Mycroft!" he shouted. Sherlock started kicking, struggling desperately away from his father's too strong arms.

"Father! Stop, please!" the older son tried to get closer to his brother, but the father bashed him over the head and Mycroft crumbled on the floor. Sherlock screamed, pure terror filling his senses as his father lowered his knife into his son's back. Sherlock couldn't stop himself crying as the knife moved around in his skin, carving into his back. He felt the streams of blood racing each other down his back, his writhing making the blood flow more freely.

"Daddy, it hurts so bad, please! I'll be good, I promise. I won't do anything bad ever, ever again! I promise, Daddy, please, stop" he sobbed.

"Shut up!" the father pressed down more firmly on his sons back with his knee. After a while, he was finished, and Sherlock had given up, collapsing in a heap of hopeless agony and blood. Their father wiped his brow of the sweat that had accumulated there. He was still seeing red, his anger making his teeth grind together. On his way out, he kicked an unconscious Mycroft in the stomach. The boy woke up groggily. His father kept walking, ready for his next glass of scotch. They were alone. Mycroft struggled to his feet, his head spinning, and went to his brother. Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, bleeding, a bruise forming in the small of his back, his tears soaking the sheets. Mycroft stared at his back for a long moment, looking in horror at the letters carved into his baby brother's pale skin.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit" Mycroft whispered. He took the first aid kit out from under the boy's bed and started to wipe away the blood. Sherlock screamed again as his brother dabbed at the open cuts. Mycroft was trying to stop himself crying at the horrible thing his father had written. When he was done, the word stood out in angry red, the pale skin slit open so easily.

"Croft, it hurts" whimpered the six year old on the bed, his chocolate curls sticking to his sweaty head.

"I know Lock, I know. It'll be okay" he soothed. But he knew it would never be okay. Because his father had crossed a line from hiding beatings to carving into his child's flesh. It would leave permanent scars. And the little boy would be followed by the word 'FREAK' for the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty years later

Sherlock was tired. It wasn't a feeling he usually had, and it felt awful. He flipped his coat off and hung it up carefully on his wardrobe door, then yanked off the rest of his clothes carelessly, leaving them where they fell on the floor. He pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers and an old t-shirt and collapsed onto his bed. He only managed to sleep two hours before John came knocking on his door and asking if he was okay. Sherlock, automatically fully awake, shouted back.

"I'm fine John! Make me toast" he ordered

"Fine" he heard John padding around the kitchen and smiled. It was nice to have someone to take care of him. Sherlock got dressed in the same clothes he stripped off a few hours before, catching his eye in the mirror and looking away quickly. He'd spent so many hours as a child ordered to stand in front of the mirror and say he was stupid and worthless and a freak. Before he put the shirt on, he looked over his shoulder into the glass. The word was still etched into his back, the thick white scars standing out slightly from the rest of the lines covering his back. They were mostly from his father's favourite riding crop. He worried often what would happen if John, or for that matter anyone on the police force he worked so closely with, found out about the word etched into his back. Lestrade had saved him, almost a decade ago, from certain destruction. He had pulled him back from the brink of succumbing to drugs and the never ending, bottomless sadness that was always there in the background, waiting to cocoon him and suck him into the sanctum of death. Lestrade had not reacted well when he'd seen it. And if John saw... That would be catastrophic. He would never stop talking about it.

"Sherlock, your toast's ready!" John called. No, John must never know.

"Coming" it was so domestic it made him smile. He walked briskly up to the kitchen and flopped down onto a chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow, his socks odd, his shoes dirty. John handed him a plate with two slices of buttered toast. Sherlock scoffed the food down, having not eaten in almost a week. He hated to eat, and only did it when his body protested so much he began to lose his mental edge. He remembered the long days, shoved inside the cupboard and denied food, and then the hours when he would be force fed everything in the house until he vomited. Then he would have to eat that too. Sherlock shuddered involuntary. John raised and eyebrow and he got up swiftly, abandoning three bites of toast and fluidly picking up both his and John's phones and checking them for cases. He was on the edge of boredom. He didn't like to fall over that edge. Thank God there was a text on John's from Lestrade.

Weird hit and run. Meet at station. GL

"John, we're going out! Got to catch a pedophile!"

"Awesome. Let me get my coat" John said, a hint of sarcasm making its way into the 'awesome'. Sherlock threw his coat on and was most of the way down the stairs before John caught up. He threw the man above him his phone, and went out into the cold of London's November air.

They got to the station in record time. Lestrade was waiting for him, and smiled slightly at the image of his friend in his floppy coat and woollen scarf.

"Morning Sherlock"

"Lestrade"

"So, a child was hit this morning, the driver didn't stop, but the kid shows all the signs of being murdered after maybe being raped. I can't explain it. He was hit by the car, there were witnesses, but he was obviously murdered elsewhere, we reckon strangled"

"The witnesses, did they see him get hit, or did they see a car accelerate and a child left on the pavement?"

"I dunno. Thinking about it, probably the second one"

"Let's go and see. Take me to the crime scene." They walked down to the crime scene together, Sherlock clocking exactly where they were and every shop around the stretch of road. "They slowed down. Something, weighing around seven stone, was dropped from the back of the... Black Ford Focus. Kid was dead before he hit the road. About three hours before"

"Bloody hell Sherlock, how'd you work that lot out?"

"Isn't it obvious, John? There is a small smear of blood here... and here. A chip of black paint here and here, from where the body hit the car. He must have been wearing something metal?"

"Yeah, his belt had black paint chips on it"

"He was dead three hours before because the blood here is brown, hard. The 'accident' was two hours ago. It takes roughly five hours for blood to get into this state"

They spent almost an hour at the crime scene, Sherlock dissecting every detail. Quite suddenly, Sherlock stopped and whipped around like a bloodhound with a scent. "John" he shouted, then ran off without another word, towards the direction he had looked. John shrugged his shoulders and jogged after him. He couldn't help screaming when he rounded the corner and saw Sherlock flying off the dented front of a black ford focus. He landed, his arm splayed unnaturally to his side, and was still.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, sprinting now towards his best friend. There was a trickle of blood racing down from Sherlock's mouth, another from a gash on his forehead. His arm was clearly broken, his ribs most likely at least fractured. John wanted desperately to pull the taller man onto his knee and keep him safe, but he didn't know if his back was injured. John yelled for Lestrade to call an ambulance, and, as he pushed hair away from a sweaty, wounded forehead, all he wanted to do was howl with the unfairness of it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed, a blanket wrapped around him, casts encasing his left arm and bandages everywhere.

"Welcome back to the land of the living" John whispered "You've been out for a while"

"Approximately three days"

"Yes- how did you-?"

"Your stubble. The furry feeling of my teeth"

"Yes Sherlock, three days. You were hit by the murderer. They caught him"

"Good" he winced as he tried to move his arms to a less agonising position

"You were right about everything. Just like always."

"Obviously"

"Why do you think he tried to kill you?"

"He wasn't trying to kill me, just make sure I wasn't around for a few days. He was planning more attacks. That means he knew who I was... A police man?"

"Yeah" John said, astonished at Sherlock and disgusted with the man. "He was a soldier too, before that. That kind of person makes me ashamed to have been one"

"I wouldn't worry about it, John. No one associates that with you lot."

"I know. But all the same"

"Yeah."

"Anyway. I wanted to ask you something, Sherlock."

"What?"

"It's... It's a bit tricky."

"Spit it out."

"When you were out, they had to do a bit of surgery, and I was watching from the observation room, and we saw something... Weird on your back."

Sherlock froze. No. No, he couldn't have seen.

"I-"

"Why does it say... That word? Who cut that into you? What the hell, Sherlock?" He was almost shouting by the end, angry both on his friend's behalf and at him, for not telling him about it.

"It's nothing, honestly. It was a very long time ago"

"I don't care if it happened last century! Who did it?"

"My father"

"Shit. And the lines? Did he hit you with some kind of stick?"

"Riding crop. But it doesn't matter, I swear! Who else saw?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John looked ready to explode "how can you be so calm about this? He carved the word Freak into your back! How can you think that doesn't matter?"

"I already knew it was there, that's why I'm not getting all stressed over it. Who else saw?"

"I don't know. A nurse. The surgeons. Lestrade"

"He already knew" Sherlock explained when John looked puzzled, "when I detoxed, a day or two after Mycroft gave up and left me to it, Lestrade showed up and helped me with the last few days of it. I spent most of the time sitting by the toilet half naked because I had a fever. Of course he's seen my back."

"And he thinks this is okay, same as you?"

"Not at first. He wanted me to report it, to get it into court. But I explained. It doesn't matter. Father isn't exactly going to come hurt me again. The courts have better problems to face than my twenty year old complaint"

"But... but this is horrific!"

"It really wasn't that bad"

"How can you possibly say that? You were... Abused, and you don't think it matters?"

"It was years ago"

"But it's a part of you, Sherlock. You've had to deal with stuff kids should never have to deal with. That must have made an impact on you"

"I expect so"

"I can't deal with this, with you not caring, with you not seeming to realise that what he did was wrong"

"It wasn't wrong" Sherlock said darkly, not looking at his friend. "I deserved it. I was irritating, weird. Everything he did, he did to make me more normal, stronger. I was bad, John, and he tried to fix me"

"No, no, you're wrong! You are not any of those things."

"Oh yeah? He's not exactly the only one who things that about me."

"Maybe not, but they're wrong too!"

"You want me to believe you over at least twenty people who knew me well who've called me a freak. Over my own family? Over myself?"

"Mycroft doesn't think you're a freak."

"Maybe not. But he's always been disappointed in me. All though school, he tried to teach me how to make friends. I didn't learn well. He's got an angry streak in him too, John, especially when he was a teenager."

"Oh God, he didn't hurt you too, did he?"

"Not nearly to the extent father did, but yes, one or two beatings were from him. He's seven years older than me. Father put him in charge when he was away. Besides, it's not like he knew any other way."

"That's as maybe, but it didn't give him the right to hurt you"

"It's all in the past John. I'm over it. He is too. Father has Alzheimer's and doesn't know my name anymore. It's all over. You're the only one making a big deal out of it."

"It deserves to be made a big deal of. You need to talk about it."

"I have talked about it. When I was taking drugs, Mycroft kidnapped me a fair few times and made me talk about everything. It doesn't help. It just drags up old memories."

"But it's good to talk. It helps you to let go."

"Haven't you been listening?" Sherlock almost shouted, a cruel backlash coming into his tone "I am over it. I have let it go. And if you'd stop yammering on about it, we could both move on into a better conversation. So shut it!" His breathing was fast and shallow, making his cracked ribs ache.

"Well" John said quietly, hurt "I think it's pretty obvious that you haven't moved on from it at all. I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock." John got up and walked away, closing the door behind him without another word. Sherlock's breathing was uneven. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd wrecked it. Just like he always did when it came to people. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.


	4. Chapter 4

John didn't come back to the hospital the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Sherlock was released on the seventh day after the accident, and he went home alone. His arm was in a sling across his body, encased in a dark blue cast, and his ribs were braced with tape. A longish scar across his forehead made him look both decrepit and more intimidating at the same time. He let himself into 221B, and looked around. John's things were depleted. The apartment looked as though no one had been there for days. A weight of cold dread settled in Sherlock's stomach. He had grown used to company. He didn't want to lose his friend. He looked around, putting his bag down on the sofa. A piece of notebook paper was taped to the mirror.

Sherlock,

I've gone to stay with Harry. I can't be here, around you, knowing what I know, not until you admit that you might not have addressed all your issues. Especially your issues related to those scars. I'll come back when you've had your fist session with a proper psychologist. I hope to see you soon.

John.

Shoot. He was gone. Sherlock leant his back against the wall. Overcome with frustration, he punched it. He could feel the rope like scars protruding from his skin, touching the wall separately. He didn't need to see a shrink. It was a pointless exercise. A waste of everyone's time. Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and selected his brother's number. He hesitated, his finger hovering over the call button. He had forgiven Mycroft for everything that had happened in their childhoods. For all the times he'd failed to protect him, and for the times where Sherlock had needed protection from his brother. Mycroft had never seriously hurt him. Just a few bruises. There was one time he broke a finger. But Sherlock had been able to set it himself. He had been too much for the teenager to cope with on his own. Their father had gone away for weeks on end, leaving them alone, first when they were five and twelve, and many times before Mycroft had left home. Sherlock scolded himself for being such a coward and pressed call. Before the second ring, Mycroft had answered.

"Good afternoon, little brother. Glad to see you out of hospital"

"They made me stay unnecessarily long. I should have been out days ago."

"You were in a coma. I made them keep you until I thought you'd be alright. Of course, that was when I thought John would be there to take care of you."

"Do you have to pull all the strings, Croft?" Sherlock said, exasperated and a little irritated.

"Oh you know me."

"John's gone."

"I know." Mycroft sounded almost sympathetic. But not quite.

"He says he's not coming back unless I talk to a professional about father."

"Do you want him back?"

"Yes."

"Then it's settled. I already made you an appointment for this afternoon."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock felt horribly uncomfortable, sitting on a blue plastic chair in the bright waiting room of a mental health clinic just outside of London. He had tucked his feet underneath his thighs so he was perched on the chair, his back ramrod straight.

"Sherlock Holmes?" A woman with short brown hair and grey eyes peered around the door. He stood up, assessing her. She was going though a messy divorce, involving at least three children and a ginger cat. She was shy, but eager to help. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Just what he needed, an eager beaver. "Hi, I'm Dr. Annie Stewart. You can call me Annie"

"Okay" Sherlock murmured. They walked in silence down a hospital corridor. It was not well lit, and Annie turned on a light on the way.

"We don't usually use these rooms, but your brother said we had to fit you in somewhere." She said brightly.

"Great." He growled. They stopped at room nine, and Annie unlocked it. It was a children's assessment room, full of puppets, dolls houses and brightly coloured toy cars. Sherlock slumped down on a blue bean bag, looking like an overly large spider with his long legs.

"So, Sherlock, why are you here today?"

"My best friend said he'd never come back if I didn't come."

"Why does he think you need to see someone?"

"Because he found out my father abused me."

"Have you ever spoken about this to a professional?"

"No. I spent a year in a mental health institution when I was fifteen, but I didn't say a word to anyone. They gave up and sent me home."

"Oh. Tell me about your father, Sherlock."

"He was an investment banker. Rich, powerful, clever. Good taste in literature, bad taste in music. Never wanted children. Wife died when his youngest was five. Alcohol issues. Anger management issues. Took it out on his sons."

"You seem very detached from that. Are you the youngest?"

"Yes."

"So your mother died when you were five?"

"Yes."

"That must have been hard for you and your brother."

"It was harder for Mycroft. He was twelve. I think father had already started picking on him. He locked himself in his room for two weeks and didn't come out to eat or anything."

"And your father?"

"He drank. A lot. He was angry. Especially at me. It was my fault, you see. I killed her."

"Oh. I'm sure you didn't-"

"I was singing, in the car. She joined in, and father got cross and yelled at us to stop, but we carried on. So he reached around to hit me, and swerved the car into a concrete wall. She died the next day."

"That wasn't your fault. He shouldn't have taken his eyes off the road, and he shouldn't have tried to hit you."

"If I'd stopped when he told me to, she would still be alive. You can't say anything to change that."

"Sherlock, I think you're being harsh on yourself. You were very young, and if he told you that often enough, it will have made an impact. But you have to try to tell yourself that it wasn't your fault. Start off by thinking about what others in the car were doing wrong, not just you."

"I want to change the subject now." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Okay. What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't know."

"Can you tell me about your brother?"

"Okay. Mycroft Holmes is the British government. He runs everything. You just don't see him. He was Mummy's favourite. He's seven years older than me. I don't think he wanted a brother. But he quite likes me, I think. Father left him in charge a lot when he went away on business. He used to get angry with me when I didn't do as he said. He'd hurt me sometimes. I don't know why I'm telling you all of this."

"Because you want your friend back. And you want to feel better."

"What about the rest? Aren't you going to psychoanalyse that lot?"

"Yes, give me a minute. You said that Mycroft hurt you like your father did. How bad did each one get. Start with your brother."

"When father left him in charge, he would get really obsessive about everything. About keeping the house tidy, and sticking to the routine."

"Perhaps he was worried about the physical consequences that would come down on him if he failed to keep everything as your father wanted it?"

"Maybe. I didn't want to stay the way we were when he was at home. I wanted freedom. But Mycroft didn't want me to have it. I was a difficult kid, you have to understand that. He didn't mean to be like father."

"I understand"

'If I did something wrong, he'd get really angry, and sometimes he'd hit me. One time, when father was away for a month during the summer holiday when I was seven, he locked me in the cupboard during the days so I wouldn't break anything, and locked my door at night so I wouldn't steal any food."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"He never really hurt me though. And it was a long time ago. We get along fine now. Well... Pretty much anyway."

"What was the worst injury he caused?"

"Only a broken finger. I set it myself, and it's perfect."

"He didn't take you to hospital?"

"We only ever went if there was a serious danger of one of us dying."

"How many times did you go?"

"I don't know. Seventeen?"

"Seventeen? Before you turned sixteen?"

"Yes."

"And you only went if you might die?"

"Yes. Most times it was severe blood loss, once or twice nasty concussions. Once when father drowned me in the bath, and once when... when he cut me. But I don't want to talk about that. Not yet."

"Okay. That's fine. You've told me about your brother. I'm assuming that your father was worse?"

"Yes. Much worse. On the physical side, he was worst just after Mummy died when I was five, and after Mycroft left for university when I was eleven. At those points, I had to go to hospital a lot of times. I have scars. He liked to use food against me. When I was a kid, he'd lock me in the cupboard for days and not give me any food, and then he'd force feed me everything in the house, until I was sick. Sometimes he made me eat that too. A lot of days in my adolescence I wasn't given any food. I looked half starved when I was fourteen. I was."

"Who, out of you and your brother, would you say had it worst from your father?"

"I don't know. I guess it was pretty equal. He got it before I was born and until Mummy died mainly, so until he was eleven. Then he went to boarding school, and I was stuck there on my own. So I had it really rough between the ages of five and sixteen."

"What happened when you were sixteen?"

"I left."

"What did you do when you left? Did you stay with Mycroft?"

"No!" Sherlock smirked "he was off on top secret missions interrogating terrorists and getting deliberately captured as a POW because he spoke their language. I lived rough."

"How long were you homeless for?"

"Until I was twenty one and I joined the police as a consulting detective."

"So you lived on the streets for five years. This may be an inappropriate question, but did you get involved in drugs?"

"Yes. But that was before I ran away."

"What drugs? Sometimes a patient's drug of choice tells us a lot about them."

"Cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, mainly. Heroin was my favourite. Took the edge off everything." Sherlock rubbed his track marked arm subconsciously. Annie took note.

"And how did you stop?"

"When I met Lestrade, the police guy, he said I couldn't work with them unless I was clean. I wanted the puzzle more than the drugs. So I stopped."

"Just like that? Someone who has been on drugs for five years would need to detox. That can be a horrible experience."

"Mycroft was there for a while. He was disappointed that I hadn't made something of myself. He gave up after a few days. Lestrade took over. He was better. He didn't judge me."

"You've done excellently, Sherlock, but I'm afraid that's the end of our hour. I'd really like to see you next week, if you're free?"

"I-I think so. Tuesday at three?"

"Yes. Okay, I'll see you then. Bye."

"Good bye" Sherlock said, leaving the room. He made his way back outside quickly, a suddenly overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia coming over him. He leaned against a wall, running his uninjured hand through his thick curly hair. He'd just spilled his guts to a total stranger. Why had he done that? Moron. He felt the sting of nervous sweat under his arm. Father had always threatened bad things... Painful things... If he told. But he was grown up now. Father was old. 'He doesn't even know who you are anymore' Sherlock reminded himself. And he'd dropped Mycroft in it too. What if he got into trouble? He'd not meant to get his brother in trouble. Sherlock got out his phone and dialled speed dial one. Mycroft.

"Hello?"

"Croft, I saw the shrink."

"And what did she say?"

"She thinks I should come again."

"How much did you tell her?"

"The bones of everything."

"Even... even about me?" The usually strong, commanding voice sounded childlike, pitiful, almost scared. Ashamed.

"Yes. I'm sorry"

"No, baby brother. I'm sorry. You tell her anything you want, Lock. I don't mind. As long as it makes you feel better." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock's hand twisted tighter around the phone.

"I... Would you ring John for me?" He said quietly. "Please?"

"I already did. He's on the train back to London. He should be back around the same time as you, if you get in the car that's about to pull over behind you." At that word, a black Volvo slid into the driveway of the mental health clinic. Sherlock smiled slightly. Slick. "I'll see you soon, little brother."


	6. Chapter 6

**Very short one from Mycroft's POV**

Mycroft was sitting at his huge oak desk in his well decorated study. He hadn't chosen a single piece of the furniture in the room, except the desk, and a maximum security safe hidden behind an original Monet. He had a small stack of files open on his desk, but he wasn't reading them anymore. In fact, he was staring out of the bay window, tears fogging up his vision. Attached to the file with a paperclip was a photo of his younger brother, a year or so ago, looking as demented as he always did in photographs. Within second of getting off the phone with Sherlock, he had managed to get his hands on a copy of the file that the therapist had started on him. Phrases jumped up at the man, 'severe childhood trauma' 'abusive relationships with important male role models' 'abuse leading to addiction' 'previously admitted for twelve months for mental health as teen' 'abandoned by brother'. Abandoned. He had abandoned Sherlock. He had hurt him. He had left him alone with their father. He had allowed him to be sent to a loony bin. He had not looked for him when he'd left home. He had not taken good care of him. Mycroft put his head in his hands, his elbows leaning on the desk. He had failed. Mummy had made him promise to take care of Sherlock, to guard him and help him. But he hadn't. He just hoped it hadn't damaged either of them irreparably. He'd thought Sherlock had forgiven him, and that it was all over, but considering how quickly he'd brought it up with the psychologist showed otherwise. At least he had been to see someone. Mycroft smiled slightly. It had only taken an hour to get him to do it, because John was a huge bargaining chip. He pushed the thought away forbidding himself from thinking of the ramifications of that chip's use. He would not use his brother's only healthy relationship against him. He'd caused enough damage.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock let himself into the apartment, exhausted. He slumped down onto his sofa, closing his eyes. John would be back soon. He kept his eyes shut and pulled his legs in front of him so his knees were against his chest. He started to bang his head rhythmically against his knees, the new scar on his forehead feeling odd against his bony knees. It was less than half an hour later that John Watson came in through the door, soaked in London rain, his blonde hair slick against his face. Sherlock looked up.

"Hey" John said awkwardly.

"Why did you go away?"

"I told you. You needed to talk to someone."

"What if... What if I'd needed you?"

"Mycroft is nearby."

"I didn't say Mycroft, I said YOU. What if I'd needed YOU?"

"I was only at Harry's Sherlock. Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not bloody well okay! You made me talk! You left me here on my own and made me drag up old memories."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, I promise. I just wanted you to get some help."

"I was fine. Forgotten a lot of it. But no, not anymore."

"I'm sorry." John said again.

"You're not allowed to leave now. Not after this. You have to stay and watch the floodgates and deal with the consequences of opening them."

"I promise I won't leave again. I didn't realise it would upset you. I'm sorry."

"Make me toast" Sherlock said in lieu of acceptance. John smiled and turned away, going to the kitchen to make his best friend toast.

An uneasy silence pervaded 221B that week. Sherlock was fidgety, bored, and dreading his next appointment with Annie. John was tense, wishing he'd handled his friend differently. He'd been an idiot. He'd done a psyche rotation in med school, he should have known that leaving someone alone when they'd just gone through trauma (like being hit by a murder's car) and had just revealed an even more traumatic past was a stupid idea. He was a doctor for heaven's sake. He should have known better.

Tuesday came too quickly for Sherlock's liking, and he got into his taxi with numb thoughts. He would have to bring it all back up again. All the things he had repressed, had never talked about, would all have to come back up. He blamed John and Mycroft in equal measure for it. Sherlock stood at the door of the large Victorian house just outside London, looking up at it. He felt more intimidated than he had last time. Eventually, a buzzer sounded, and a bored voice came crackling through the speaker on the wall.

"You coming in or what?"

"I'm coming" Sherlock said into the speaker. The door buzzed and opened slightly. He pushed it and went inside, back into the brightly coloured waiting room. Within minutes, Annie Stewart had called him back along the dark corridor to the unused child's therapy room.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. How are you?"

"Fine"

"Did John come back?"

"Yeah. He didn't realise it would upset me." He said, trying to defend his friend

"Would you say that he usually misjudges people situations like that?"

"No he's good with people."

"Then surely he must have known that walking out on you was going to hurt you?"

"He didn't mean to hurt me. He didn't know I would be so sensitive."

"So it's not his fault. It's yours?"

"I... Yes"

"Sherlock, you spent most of our time last session making excuses for your father and brother. And now you're making excuses for John. You're making everything your own fault, blaming yourself for other's mistakes. Especially if they hurt you."

"I'm not! I'm laying out the truth. The truth is logical. The truth is that people don't set out to hurt others. The one getting hurt always shares the blame."

"How is it your fault that your father beat and starved you?"

"I was bad." Sherlock shrugged "he wanted me to be a better person, to be able to fit in with society."

"And how was it your fault that your brother hurt you?"

"He was stressed. He should never have had to cope with me. I made everything more difficult for him."

"And now John. How is it your fault that your best friend left you in a time of need?"

"I was being stubborn. He only wanted the best for me, even if he's misguided. I should have just caved and come to you before he had to leave."

"So you can satisfactorily blame everything bad that's ever happened to you, everything that everyone else has done to you, on yourself?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, your feelings are typical of abuse victims. You want to blame yourself because it's easier to think that you are wrong or bad in some way than that the people who are meant to love and care for you didn't do it right. Some people come out of abusive pasts believing that they are worthless, some that they are bad or stupid or pathetic or weak. I believe that your father tried to teach you that you are bad, different from society's norm. But let me tell you this, Sherlock. You are not a bad person. You are not wrong. And you are not a weirdo. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"But you don't agree?" She could tell by his tone.

"No." Sherlock said. Annie sighed.

"Why do you believe you are to blame for other people abusing you?" She asked. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, running his uncasted hand through his curly hair.

"I dunno. It just is. I just don't work like other people."

"I imagine that's true. But why does that mean that other people can hurt you without any consequences to them, not even from you?"

"I dunno!" Sherlock shouted "you want me to reveal something, to guess something big! Well I can't, okay? I can do anything, but not this! I can't sit here and talk about my feelings and who's to blame for what! I know the answers. It's a waste of everyone's time." Sherlock was panting with the effort that shouting his speech had taken. But he hadn't got up to leave.

"I'm sorry. But I disagree, Sherlock, I think you are more than capable of revealing things about yourself. I can tell that, in the past, whenever you have made yourself vulnerable, you have paid a price for it. But not with me, I promise."

"I don't want to talk" Sherlock said in a tiny voice, making him sound very young.

"I know it's hard. But you'll get through it, I promise." Annie never usually made promises to her patients.

"Okay" he whispered, intertwining his long fingers and resting his forehead on his hands. "What do you want to know?"

"We've already spoken about your father and brother. I would like to hear more about what happened in the run up to you leaving home. Principally the year you spent in a mental institution.

"Father sent me there when I was fifteen."

"Why?"

"I tried to kill myself with a massive overdose of heroin."

"Oh."

"So he sent me to this place..."

_Sherlock clutched onto his backpack, slung over one shoulder. The nurses smiled at him, their white uniforms shining. Other teenagers milled around the room, watching the television and playing pool. He didn't want to be here. He didn't need to be there. The nurse took his arm and led him like a child to a small bedroom._

_"This is yours. You can put your pack here, and then I'll take you to meet the others."_

_"No."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"I want to keep my pack"_

_"Why? What's in there?"_

_"Nothing, just a few of my things, some clothes that kind of stuff."_

_"Then why can't you leave it here?"_

_"It's important to me."_

_"Fine, whatever." The nurse shrugged, eyeing his black, shabby rucksack with disdain. Sherlock walked numbly back to the common room, and the nurse cleared her throat, calling for silence. Sherlock stood uncomfortably next to her, gripping the strap of his backpack like a life float. His brown hair was curly, a little shorter than it normally was. He was even thinner than usual, having spent the last two weeks in a hospital bed. He sported the hospital wristband, tattered on his wrist. He wore black jeans, a dark blue T-shirt and a zippy hoodie half way zipped. The nurse cleared her throat again, and the teenagers turned to face her. "This is Sherlock Holmes, he'll be with us for eight months minimum." She turned to Sherlock "what would you like everyone to call you?"_

_"Um... Sherlock?" He said, as though she was a little slow._

_"All right. This is Sherlock, then. He'll be joining us for the suicide group session and for the addiction seminars." She dismissed the group with a nod, and they went back to their previous activities. "So, well then. There are some lovely people here, Sherlock, really nice boys and girls, I'm sure you'll love it here."_

_"Yeah, right"_

_"Okay. You go and chat to them, then. I'll make sure all your paper work and medication is ready for you"_

_"Cheers" Sherlock went to the nearest sofa and collapsed down onto it. He cast an eye around. The girl playing pool had tried to kill herself, like he had. The boy with the sun glasses looked as though he might be schizophrenic, he was jerking his head to talk to the air above him. The girl reading a magazine with her hand on her belly was clearly anorexic, her ribs sticking out visibly. Sherlock's ribs stuck out like that, he thought. The boy sitting in the corner, opposite Sherlock, was staring at him. Sixteen, abuse victim, psychotic break, hit the person abusing him, his father by the looks of the eyes, over the head with a frying pan. He looked cool. Sherlock stared right back at the boy, and he smiled. The other boy stood up, revealing a slender, short frame, and came over to Sherlock._

_"All right?" He grunted. Sherlock clicked his teeth. "Alec, by the way."_

_"Sherlock"_

_"Nice. So, first usual question is how get I end up here."_

_"I won't ask. I already know. I could tell. __You were abused by your father. He hit you, a lot. You had a breakdown and hit him over the head with a frying pan."_

_"Whoa dude, you been reading my file?"_

_"No. I deduced it."_

_"What?" He looked non plussed._

_"Deduction. A science and an art. Working things out about people using the evidence you're presented with."_

_"That is so cool. I'd love to be able to do that."_

_"My brother taught me, but I had the ability first. I don't know if I can teach it."_

_"Fair play. Anyway, you know all about me, and I don't know a thing about you except your name."_

_"I didn't hit my father back."_

_"Oh. What did you do then?"_

_"I... I ODed on heroin."_

_"We're you trying to get high or off yourself?"_

_"You think they sent me here for getting high?"_

_"No. You want something to eat?"_

_"No. I don't eat."_

_"What, ever?"_

_"Not really."_

_"That your dad too?"_

_"I guess."_

_"Not mine. He was away all day, he'd only come home at night. Then a quick go on me for an hour, dinner and bed. I had the house to myself most of the time."_

_"Mine left me alone too, but most times with my big brother."_

_"Cool. I always wanted a sibling"_

_"I didn't."_

_"Right." Alec bit his lip, wandering what he was poking at. He decided to retreat. "Want to play pool?"_

_"Okay"_

Annie looked at her patient sadly. She had never seen someone with so many scars, marked so deep into their psyche. Before Sherlock had turned sixteen, he'd been abused by his father and his brother, he'd resorted to drug use, attempted to kill himself, been admitted to a mental hospital and, she knew from are quick Internet search on him, been kicked out of four schools for fighting. And then he'd run away from it all, and lived on the streets for years. She felt sorry for him. But she didn't let it show on her face.

"Did you go to therapy at the institution?"

"I didn't say a word to them. Not on my own, not in group. I didn't fall for that stuff with art. I stayed in my room mostly, and if they made me go out, I played pool with Alec. But he left about six months in. So then I just wouldn't come out. I hardly ate, I couldn't stomach it. To be honest, all I wanted was to be left alone in that room with a lot of heroin and allowed to just leave. I wasn't being anything useful, just a waste of space, and if they let me just die, it would have been easier on everyone!" Sherlock was panting slightly, his voice had raised quite considerably.

"I'm just going to pick one thing out of that for the moment, Sherlock. Why didn't you tell them about your father or your brother?"

"I didn't want them to go to prison. They're my family." He said quietly, closing his eyes.

"Okay. Okay." She soothed. "It's time to end this session now, Sherlock. Will you come next week?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll leave you to let yourself out. Bye Sherlock" she said everything gently, knowing how close he was to the edge of breaking down. She left the room, leaving Sherlock sitting on the too small bean bag alone. He sighed, and got up too, flicking on his phone and hitting speed dial one, Mycroft.

"Are you all right?" He said

"Yes. Send a car." Sherlock hung up the phone, waited a minute and then made his way outside and got into the black car. "Take me home, and then to Mycroft." He ordered. The driver, looking back at the slightly crazed man with wild hair and wilder eyes, did as he'd said. And soon, Sherlock, the driver, and a slightly confused John were on their way to see Mycroft Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry about the languages, it's all Google translate. I only speak GCSE French and beginners Norwegian!**

Sherlock was about to knock on the door of Mycroft's study when it opened. Mycroft stood tall, leaning against the frame.

"Hey" he whispered

"Hey" Sherlock whispered back. John, standing behind the detective, poked his head around, wiggling his eyebrows at Mycroft. The older man's stern facade broke into a small smile, and he moved aside to let them in.

"What brings you here, little brother?"

"I wanted to talk to you. About father"

"Sie sind sicher, dass Sie dies mit John hier tun?" Mycroft said in German 'are you sure you want to do this with John here?'

"Wenn wir auf Deutsch sprechen, ist es egal." Sherlock replied 'it doesn't matter if we speak in German'

"What are you saying?" John said, exasperated.

"Don't worry about it, John" Sherlock we back into English. "I'm just going to have a quick conversation with my dearest brother." He switched back into German and turned to face Mycroft. "I want to talk about father. And about what he did to us."

"I thought you might." Mycroft said, keeping in German and casting sideways glances at John, who was now perusing his bookshelf. "Look, I'll answer any questions you have, Sherlock. I will answer them truthfully to the best of my ability."

"Thank you" he said sincerely. "First, I want to know how bad it was for you."

"Worse before Mummy died. He started with me when I was about four, and stopped for a while when you were born, and then started again when you were two. After Mummy died, he sent me away to school, and I was only home for the holidays. So it pretty much ended when I was twelve. I think you had it worse than me."

"Longer, definitely. He didn't really start with me until after you left. Then it got worse and worse, until I ran away at sixteen."

"God, eleven years. That's a long time, Lock."

"I know."

"What... What did he do to you? I was only really there for when he did your back with the knife."

"I dunno, Croft. He hit me. With his fists mainly, but he liked to use the belt when he'd had some scotch. And the riding crop when he'd had too much." Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft shut his eyes, sighing. He had left his baby brother with that monster for eleven years. And he could never get that sweet innocent boy back, the boy who wanted to play pirates and 'kidnap' books from the library. Mycroft had killed him.

"Shit."

"It doesn't matter. Croft, I need to know, the psychologist said I had to ask. I'm not dragging up the past, or trying to make you feel bad. But why did you hurt me too?" He whispered the last part so quietly Mycroft had to lip read. It was a skill he had not quite perfected in German, but he understood from the ashamed, embarrassed look on his brother's face.

"Listen, little brother. I could sit here and make excuses for myself all day. I was too young, far too young to have to take care of you. I did a bang up job of it. Add all that to Mummy dying and my exams, and I was so stressed I couldn't cope. So I took it out on you, like I'd seen father do. And for that, I can do nothing but apologise. Looking back, I am so damned angry at myself, Lock. I can't believe I hurt you. I don't understand what the hell was going through my head. I'm not sure there was anything going through my head. I'm so sorry."

"I- the psychologist says I blame myself, and I should be blaming you."

"She's right. It's others who are in the wrong here, Lock. Father was wrong, I was wrong. You were innocent, all the way. I'm sorry."

"You really want to take the blame?"

"I really, really do. It was my fault, Sherlock. Don't blame yourself." Mycroft looked longingly at his brother, as though wishing he could bring back the tiny boy who would pester him to play. And, quite suddenly, Sherlock was right up next to his brother, his fist drawn back, his eyes full of murderous rage, and a second later, Mycroft was lying on the floor, a trickle of blood running down his face. John vaulted the desk and grabbed Sherlock's arms, pulling him back. Sherlock's eyes were focused on his brother.

"Sherlock! What the hell is going on!" John yelled, restraining him.

"Giving him a taste of his own medicine!" Sherlock shouted in English, and then switching back to German whilst trying to get to his brother on the floor "you hurt me, you bastard! Not only did you stand by and let Father beat me, you did it yourself! You were the worst big brother ever! You were meant to protect me, and you didn't!" Sherlock was on the brink of tears. "I hate you, and I hate him, and I hate me!" And he collapsed, sobbing full out, onto his knees, his hands buried inside his hair, his grey-blue eyes covered. John let him fall, flabbergasted. Sherlock Holmes did not cry. Sherlock Holmes did not succumb to human emotion. But he was wrong. And Sherlock cried. Mycroft and John remained still for a while, the only noise in the room Sherlock's noisy, choking, howling sobs. Mycroft knelt next to him, wiping the blood from his face, leaving a streak across his cheek, and put his hands on his brother's shoulders. He switched to Italian,

"TI amo fratello, e mi spiace davvero" 'I love you brother, and I am so sorry'

"Mycroft, what the hell is going on?" John said, hopelessly confused.

"I'm ready to go home now" Sherlock whispered.

"Okay, I'll take you." John said quietly. But neither man moved.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock" Mycroft said in English "I really, really am"

"Me too" Sherlock whispered through his hands, his head bowed.

"Take him home. Let him be." Mycroft said to John.

"Cummon Sherlock" John put his arm under his best friend's shoulders and half led, half dragged him back outside. Mycroft, left alone, sat down at his desk, held a tissue to his sluggishly bleeding nose and laid his head on the desk. He had hurt his brother far beyond the physical. He had betrayed him, in every way possible. Sherlock was right. He was the worst big brother ever.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft sat at his desk, facing away from the room and out over London. His nose had stopped bleeding, but it was still sore from his little brother's attack. He was glad that Sherlock had hit him. He more than deserved it. He felt the horrible guilt and shame like knives in his chest. He had hurt Sherlock. Not just once, but countless times. He had blindly followed their father's example and taken his teenage frustrations out on his brother, the Holmes family's personal punching bag. Mycroft groaned. He'd been so stupid. And, what was worse, was that Sherlock didn't seem to even remember the worst time. That time when the little boy was only about six, just after Mummy died, and a few months before the incident with the knife.

_The boys were alone in the huge house, the fridge now empty, and the doors and windows still locked and bolted. Mycroft was biting his nails, feeling his stomach grumble. He hadn't eaten the whole day. He'd been quite responsible with the food, he felt. Sherlock didn't need nearly as much as him, the little boy was fine to have the half loaf of bread to keep for the fortnight. But now everything Mycroft had saved for himself had gone. He'd locked Sherlock in his bedroom the minute father had left, giving him the bread and a few new books through the sealed cat flap at the top of his door. Suddenly, Mycroft's attention was pulled away from his gurgling stomach and his worry about what his father would do to him if anything happened to his house. He'd heard a crash upstairs. Damn. That stupid little boy was always ruining everything! Now he'd get it so bad from father. Mycroft ran up the stairs and unbolted Sherlock's door._

_"What the hell do you think you're doing?"_

_"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I promise" Sherlock bit his lip, his breathing coming faster, his arms wrapping instinctively around his chest. Mycroft looked down at the broken glass beaker that had once contained some sort of chemical. He looked back up at his little brother, anger firing up his eyes._

_"You broke it! You're going to get me into so much trouble, you little loser!"_

_"I'm sorry Mycroft!" Sherlock said, panicking, his dark curls quivering with the rest of his body._

_"No use being sorry now, is there! You're so stupid!"_

_"I didn't mean to" Sherlock sobbed._

_"Stop crying. Seriously, I mean it." Mycroft raised his fist threateningly, and when Sherlock didn't stop crying, he covered the steps between them in an instant. "Stop it now" Mycroft brought his fist down on the little boy's shaking face._

_"Please stop!" But the small, hard fists came back over and over, hitting him in the face, the back, the chest, the stomach and anywhere else once he'd fallen over. Mycroft didn't stop until the child had stopped crying, protesting, or moving. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his forehead when he finally stopped beating his brother. The little boy was still, a deathly grey colour, blood leaking from his face and chest. Mycroft stood back, panting, and stepped on the broken glass of his brother's experiment._

_"Sherlock?" he said, leaning forward to shake his shoulder. "Sherlock?" The boy didn't make a sound, but flinched unconsciously away from the hand. "Sherlock! Wake up!" Mycroft knelt down beside his brother, terrified. He had hurt him, really hurt him. He hadn't meant to hurt him. Blood seeped from between Sherlock's lips, from his nose, from his left ear. It covered Mycroft's hands in slimy streaks. He looked down at his brother, curled up in a greyish, terrified, unconscious ball, and Mycroft began to cry. Grown up, responsible, strong Mycroft sobbed uncontrollably for two hours, staying right by his baby brother's side until he woke up. "Oh thank God" Mycroft whispered as he saw Sherlock open his eyes and flinch at the light._

Mycroft shuddered at the memory. How could he have been so... stupid, so cruel? Like he'd told Sherlock, he could sit and make excuses for himself all day. But they were all false. What he did was beyond inexcusable. He was surprised he and Sherlock were even on speaking terms. Sometimes he wished they weren't. Sometimes he felt that the younger man was far, far above him, and that he didn't quite deserve the forgiveness. He didn't, not really. He was as horrible as his father had said. Mycroft Holmes, the British government himself, put his head on the desk and tried to think of happier thoughts whilst trying not to cry for the second time that week.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry it's been so long, I'm in the middle of my A level exams (last year of school) so I've been really busy. They don't finish until the 18th of June, then my writing will definitely pick up again, I promise!**

Sherlock didn't get out of bed for six days. John tried everything, from bribery to threats to shouting. But Sherlock did not respond, lying on his side, the duvet pulled up to his chin, only his curly hair showing. On the seventh day, he got up. He didn't speak or look at John. He didn't eat. He didn't change his clothes or shower, or shave or brush his hair. He got up just four minutes before he had to leave to make his appointment. John tried to talk to him, he Sherlock ignored all his attempts. He got into a taxi, told the driver the address of the clinic, and rested his head on the window, watching London. He felt awful. He'd hit Mycoft. Over something that finished twenty years ago. He was selfish and stupid and dwelling on unimportant things. There was no reason to keep talking about it, all it did was hurt. And yet he walked inside the clinic, his legs moving automatically as though they knew it would be good for him, and he ended up back in the children's assessment room, slumping down on the beanbag in an incredibly undignified way, opposite Annie in a pink sweater.  
"You don't look so good today, Sherlock. What's wrong?"  
"I talked to Mycroft. About what he did. I punched him in the face." He didn't look up, not allowing his worry at her judgement to show on his face.  
"Good."  
"Good? I punched the British Government!" He sounded shocked.  
"You hit your brother, just like you were meant to be able to do when you were a child."  
"I didn't mean to hit him, it just kind of... Overtook me."  
"That's fair. You have repressed these feelings for far, far too long. It's only natural that they would come out all at once, in ways you wouldn't expect."  
"But I hit Mycroft!" He said, incredulous that she wasn't getting the significance of his actions. "His nose bled and everything!"  
"I'm glad, Sherlock. You don't need to feel bad about it. You certainly don't need to feel guilty about it."  
"But..."  
"I think we should move on to something else, now, give that some time."  
"Okay"  
"I have a bit of a confession to make. I researched you. I just typed your name into google."  
"Hundreds of people do that." He shrugged.  
"I read John's blog. And I found out some information, in passing about your family. I found a photograph of you and Mycroft, when you were quite young. There was a third child, in the picture. It said she was called Katerina."  
"I... haven't spoken about Rina in years. Hardly thought about her."  
"Who was she?"  
"She... She was my sister. Our sister. She was my twin, actually. She died. When I was three. She had cancer. I don't really remember that much about her. Mycroft never speaks about her, it's like she never existed."  
"I'm sorry. What are your memories of her?"  
"I remember... Feeling lonely when we were separated. Even though that was most of the time. She had a different Nanny, see. She wasn't as clever as Mycroft and I. But she could talk, proper sentences, even though she was only two and the cancer was destroying her brain. She was very pretty. I remember that our mother liked that. She used to spend hours brushing Rina's hair."  
"She died when you were three?"  
"Yes. And that's when... When it all started with father. He blamed me, you see."  
"And that had physical consequences?"  
"Yes. When she died... he was so angry with me. It was like he wished I'd been ill instead. I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral, or keep any of her toys. The nanny was sent away, and no one ever talked about her again. Like I said, it was like she never existed. I used to wonder if I'd imagined her. My school thought I'd made her up, my parents never told them about her. They thought I was insane. So I didn't talk to anyone there. In fact, I was pretty much silent until I was seven. Father preferred it. But he punished me for it too." He looked lost in the past, and he jumped when she spoke softly.  
"Sherlock- are you alright?"  
"I'm fine."  
"Have you visited Rina's grave?"  
"No. Father refused to tell me where it was. And by the time I was in a fit state to actually go, after I started helping the police, he was sick and old. I never asked Mycroft. He thinks I know, that I've been. If he knew I'd never even bothered to visit her, he'd think I was horrible. How can I accuse him of not being a good brother and then not visit my sister's grave in 23 years?"  
"We need to address this warped view of blame, Sherlock. It is perfectly reasonable for you to never have visited. Firstly, you have the very real reason that you don't even know what cemetery it's in, and secondly because she was your twin sister, it is obviously going to be painful for you to go. You are a good person, Sherlock, and a good brother. Remember that. I have a task for you."  
"Oh right?"  
"I want you to visit your father."  
"He's in a home, he doesn't know who I am anymore. It would be a waste of time."  
"I don't think it would be. You could ask him some questions. You could see if you think he deserves your forgiveness."  
"I can't forgive him. He ruined my childhood. My life."  
"I know. But you can only get past that if you speak to him, have a proper conversation, and forgive him for the things he did to you. Forgiving someone doesn't mean that what they did was okay, or that you will be okay straight away. But it means both of you have the chance to be free from all the bad things that have happened."  
"I don't want to."  
"I'll come with you, if you like?"  
"No." Sherlock said, a little more sharply than he had intended. "Sorry, I just don't want you to see him."  
"That's fine" she smiled warmly "but make sure you don't do it alone, okay? You could take John, or Mycroft, or Lestrade. Anyone who makes you feel safe and comfortable."  
"I'll think about it."  
"Well done, Sherlock. That's the end of our session today, unfortunately."  
"Okay. Thanks." Sherlock stood up to leave, and got to the door before he turned back to her "I think your oldest son is being bullied by a blonde boy with a ginger cat."  
"What?"  
"Your left arm has several of his hairs on it, most likely to have got there if he leant on you in the car. Twelve year old boys don't lean on their mothers in cars unless something is really wrong. There are also lighter blonde hairs, and two ginger ones. The right length for a cat but not a boy. You should ask him about it."  
"Thank you, Sherlock. See you next Tuesday." She said as he shut the door. She shut her eyes. She hoped dearly that her son wasn't being bullied. But now he'd said it, it made perfect sense. Too bad it had taken a genius to point it out.


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade was reading the paper, his feet comfortably resting on the corner of his desk. He didn't hear Sherlock come in until his paper was pushed down and a mob of curly dark hair appeared where the article on immigration had been.  
"Sherlock! What the hell!" Lestrade pulled his feet off the desk and folded his paper sharply.  
"I need a favour."  
"Okay?"  
"My shrink says I need to visit my father."  
"Really? Do you want me to come with you?"  
"Why else would I be here?" Sherlock said, deliberately not actually asking.  
"I'm happy to come, Sherlock. Lead the way."  
"He lives in a home about an hours drive away." Sherlock bit his lip. He was nervous, Lestrade realised. He didn't blame the younger man in the slightest. If the carving on his back was anything to go by, his father must have been one hell of a jerk. A million times worse than a jerk. "He doesn't know who I am."  
They drove in silence, Lestrade tapping the steering wheel slightly to a song in his head, Sherlock staring out of the window as his beloved city dwindled into red brick suburbs and then into countryside. Eventually, after longer than it should have been, they arrived at the Edwardian building that housed thirty elderly people with memory disorders. On entering the building, they were asked to sign in. Within five minutes, Sherlock had inadvertently made the receptionist cry by telling her that her husband had cheated on her because he thought she was too fat. Lestrade attempted to comfort her whilst rolling his eyes at a rather surprised Sherlock. The men were led into a lounge area with a piano and a television as well as several brown leather sofas. They sat in silence, Sherlock at the piano, touching but not playing the middle C. Lestrade read a magazine on gardening. Eventually, after a very long time, a nurse came in, helping an old man to hobble to the sofa. He was hunched slightly, his grey hair thinning considerably. His glasses were grey with thick glass. Sherlock didn't remember him wearing glasses last time. He held an IV pole, and he was using it to prop himself upright. Sherlock kept his face neutral, but beneath his cold exterior he was squirming, hating to be this close to the man who had caused him so much pain.  
"Okay then, Mr. Holmes, I'll leave you three alone. You just let me know if you need anything, okay boys?" The nurse said, patronisingly.  
"Thank you" Lestrade nodded, smiling. He turned his attention to Sherlock the second she left the room. The tall man looked stiff, as though he was subconsciously trying not to displease his father even after all those years.  
"Hello Father" Sherlock said quietly, not looking at the old man.  
"Father? You're not Mycroft."  
"No. I'm Sherlock."  
"I don't have another son. Only my little Mycroft. He's in the government, you know. Very smart is my boy" he smiled, sitting down slowly onto one of the sofas.  
"Mycoft is my older brother. I'm your younger son by seven years" Sherlock said, trying not to feel hurt that he had been forgotten. He shouldn't feel hurt by anything this man said to him anymore. But the little child inside him ached for his father's approval. For his love.  
"No. I don't have another son" the old man shook his head, frowning."  
"Okay, fine. What about Katerina?" Sherlock leaned forward, leaning his arms on his long thighs.  
"She looked just like her mother." The old man sighed.  
"I need to know where we buried her. What cemetery?"  
"No. Only me and Mycroft know. The Other can't know."  
"The Other?" Sherlock asked, hurt already piercing at his heart.  
"Sherlock Holmes"


End file.
